The Scars That Define Us (The Devil's Dust #2)(23)

“Congratulations, you saved yourself an STD or two,” I reply condescendingly.

Shadow smirks, but his eyes are held with sorrow. Sorrow from what, us? From me trying to move on with my life?

We sit silently, our bodies screaming to throw ourselves at each other, wanting to make up for the damage we have caused.

“I just wanted to get out, get away from the idea of being a prisoner. Parker seemed nice,” I babble, breaking the silence. There was no way I would have ended up with Parker; being next to Shadow and the way he makes my body come alive confirms that. “I just wanted to talk to someone who didn’t see me as an enemy,” I whisper. Shadow flinches at my words as if I just reached over and slapped him.

He rubs his hands up and down his face as he groans in frustration. His reaction shows me I did exactly that, though. I hurt him. He hurt me, too.

“What are we doing, Shadow?” I ask, planting my hands on the counter. “I’m tired of this charade. If you want me, then be with me. If not…”

Shadow looks up at me, his eyes hard and angry.

“You are my ol’ lady until I say so,” he hisses, his words clipped. I stare into his damaged eyes; images of us together before the raid swirl in the depths of them.

He shakes his head from our silent stare off and abruptly heads toward the door.

“Shadow!” I yell.

He stops and stares at me, our gazes of confusion and hurt trying to silently speak to one another before he shuts the door.

***

“Very good, girls,” I compliment, trying to encourage the little girls attempting to learn to dance en pointe. I look at the clock and see it’s past six pm, quitting time.

“All right, let’s call it quits for today and I will see you girls next week,” I remark cheerfully and head toward the door. I’m glad it’s time to end the day; my feet are killing me, and I’m pretty sure I split a toenail. My feet are truly taking a beating. I change out of my leotard and put on some loose-fitting shorts and a white tank top. When I peel off my ballet shoes, one of my toes is sticky with dry blood.

Shit.

I hobble to the bathroom and clean my foot before trying to stuff it in my shoe. Putting my shoes on is more difficult than I imagined with pain radiating up my leg as I squeeze my foot in. I hobble out and lock the doors behind me. Tom is usually waiting for me right outside the doors, but I don’t see him tonight; he must be running late. I sit down and wait, because standing is too painful. A car door shuts, catching my attention from across the parking lot. I can barely see the car since it’s hidden in the depths of the night, concealing its presence.

I squint at the shadowy figure walking toward me, trying to make out who it is.

“I figured I would find you playing ballerina,” my mother says, her tone harsh. I stand immediately and freeze.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, stepping back and gripping my bag tighter to my body. The streetlights shine across her as she walks forward; she’s dressed to impress, as usual. She has on black slacks with a white, button-up blouse, her hair in some trendy up-do. She looks like she hasn’t lost a wink of sleep, even after everything she pulled on the club and myself. Go figure. Heartless bitch.

She looks at the traffic on the highway off in the distance. “I thought I would try and talk some sense into you one last time before I head to New York.”

“You’re wasting your time. Leave,” I order, pointing at the black car she arrived in.

She laughs, pissing me off. She’s stupid if she thinks I’m not serious.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Dani,” she states, her tone condescending.

“Do you know what kind of hell you left behind after you pulled the crap you did?” I ask angrily.

“You’re dumber than I thought going back to that club. I’m surprised they haven’t killed you.” She snorts her last comment. “They will never trust you,” she says, placing her hands on her hips. I shrug at her attempt to scare me.

“Get your shit and let’s go back to New York, Dani. Where you belong,” she insists, stepping toward me. I backtrack towards the door.

“I’m not going anywhere.” The only reason she wants me to go with her is for the next time she tries to break my father.

She blasts forward and grips my arm to the point of bruising, her nails digging deep into my flesh.

“Yes, you are. You’re going back to New York whether you like it or not,” she demands, dragging me across the parking lot.

I rip my arm from her grip only to have her nails cut my skin. She reaches for my arm again but misses her target when I push her hard. Her feet catch, making her trip, but she catches her balance before falling and looks at me with fire in her eyes.

“You little bitch!” she screams, slapping me hard across the face. My head rings with pain from the harsh contact. She grabs my arm again and starts hauling me toward her car. My reasoning scatters and my body vibrates with sudden rage. I grab her arm and pull her toward me roughly before I clench my fist and hit her as hard as I can in her eye. She yells in pain, letting go of my arm.

“You want to play rough?” she jeers, holding her eye. Before I can process what she says, she kicks me hard in the stomach, making me fall to the ground out of breath. She leans down in my face. “You are just like your father. Weak,” she spits, her tone laced with disgust while she grabs my arm hard. Thinking quickly, I grab her elbow and pull her down to the ground with one hard tug. She reaches back and grabs my hair, pulling it hard. I try to pull away, attempting to get to my bag, which is feet away. She straddles my back, pulling my hair hard as I crawl toward my bag, but my breasts scratch against the broken parking lot, making it painful. I claw at the ground, trying to pull myself with the weight of my mother on top of me when a chunk of the asphalt breaks free beneath my fingertips. I grip it tightly and thrust it backwards toward my mother’s head. It connects with her scalp hard, making her cry in pain as she lets go and grabs at her head. I scramble forward, knocking her off me in the process, and grab my bag. I pull the drawstrings and reach in, fishing for the gun Bobby gave me. I look over my shoulder and see her racing toward me, blood running down her face, so I turn the safety off and point it at her head in a split second.